Not the Collective Idea of Sentient Life
by oleanderhoney
Summary: "There was a reason he recognised the death sentence hanging over Hope's head for what it was —a proverbial guillotine of sorts. It was easy to spot even without the deductions simply because Sherlock had a noose around his own neck. ...It wasn't supposed to be like this. Sherlock was never supposed to fall in love." Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hello all. Against my better judgment I've started a new story. Sorry about the angst in advance. Would really love feedback on this as I'm not so sure on where it is going. I've rated it M for the heaviness and language just to be safe. I'm not sure how fast updates will be on this given it takes a bit out of me to write on subjects, especially if I've had some emotional experience with them in the past.**

**The title is based on a quote in John Greene's novel, ****_The Fault in Our Stars_****.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Moff, Gat, and the BBC as well as the magnanimous Arthur Conan Doyle.**

* * *

_[number blocked] – 3:38 AM_  
Stop this foolishness, already.  
M

_Sent – __3:41 AM_  
Piss off.  
SH

_[number blocked] – 3:41 AM_  
It's been six months, since Moscow, Sherlock. Come home.  
M

_Sent – __3:42 AM_  
Don't. You know why I cannot. Don't make this harder by tempting me, Mycroft.  
SH

_[number blocked] – 3:43 AM_  
Think of John.  
M

_Sent – 3:43 AM_  
I do. Every day.  
SH

_[number blocked] – 3:45 AM_  
He wouldn't want you to do this.  
M

_Sent – 3:45 AM_  
He already thinks I'm dead. It will be better this way. He's had time to move on with his life, and I won't destroy that again. I won't.  
SH

_[number blocked] – 3:48 AM_  
Before Moriarty, what were you planning on telling John, then?  
M

_Unsent – 3:49 AM__  
__He wasn't supposed to stick around as long as he did. He wasn't supposed_

Sherlock looks down at his mobile in his hands, the aborted text message glaring up at him. His thumb hovers over the keys suddenly at a loss for what to say.

John wasn't supposed to what? Like him? Defend him? Kill for him?

Befriend him.

Since when did John ever do what was expected of him? Always so stubborn and belligerent. The thought almost makes him laugh, and he very nearly manages it before the shards of bitterness stick in his throat threatening to break into a sob if he lets them out. He clenches his hand around the plastic casing of the phone until his knuckles turn white.

John was supposed to be a social experiment. A study in interpersonal relationships that he never fully committed to back in his Uni days — too concerned with his next hit, and too bogged down by the morass of boredom in his head to focus properly on the intricacies of 'interacting' with his fellow species. It wasn't until meeting Lestrade from New Scotland Yard at the end of his first stint in rehab where he realised that a modicum of diplomacy went a long way in getting people to do things that he wanted. And it wasn't until his last stint in rehab when he realised…when they found…

_nodon'tthinkaboutthat now. not now. you have all night to ruminate on the veritable time bomb ticking in your head._

…and then a curious ex-Army Doctor with a psychosomatic limp walked into the lab at St. Bart's and he thought, _'Oh how interesting,'_ and proceeded to offer the man a place to live feigning the excuse of needing a flatshare. At the time, he figured his failed attempt at small talk with Stamford was of no consequence. Instead, the misunderstanding set off a ripple effect which ended in one Doctor John H. Watson shooting a man dead for him on the assumption that he was about to kill Sherlock.

Which was a laugh. And at the time, Sherlock relished the acute irony of the situation.

There was a reason he recognised the death sentence hanging over Hope's head for what it was —a proverbial guillotine of sorts. It was easy to spot even without the deductions simply because Sherlock had a noose around his own neck.

It was only supposed to be an experiment. And then John had _surprised_ him. And kept surprising him. And was exceptionally useful, and made him laugh, which he hadn't done in such a long time it was obscene. And Sherlock, he…

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Sherlock was never supposed to fall in love.

But bastard buggering fuck if he didn't. Fall that is. In more ways than one.

In a way, Moriarty's timing was apt, Sherlock would give him that.

It accomplished what he had feared he could not. It prevented him from having to do all the dirty work and provided the same end result in a most efficient manner. It allowed Sherlock to die in a blaze of glory, at least in John's eyes, instead of the slow pathetic decay of his own traitorous body. It gave him John's undying, and untainted loyalty instead of the obligated _pity_ he was dreading. These were the reasons read: facts, why it was best to carry on the way that he was.

This way, he could die in isolation the way he wanted and planned on before John. To go back now and reveal himself to be alive was not a kindness no matter what Mycroft said, and he would never be willingly cruel to John knowing him as he did now. Kind John, patient, and good_John_ who deserved so much more than Sherlock could ever give him and deserved to live his life in relative peace. And if he were completely honest, in the still darkness of the night where he wrestled with demons and sleep eluded him, he would admit that he was giving himself a chance too. A chance to smother that insidious spark of hope lodged in the space between his lungs once and for all. Or at least smother it until…

_stop. rewind. don't think about that now._

It takes him a moment for his vision to come back to him and his breathing to normalise, the vestiges of panic receding much slower than he would like, and when it does Sherlock finds he is supporting himself against the small writing desk in yet another horrid hostel. For a moment he honestly forgets which city he's in this time, and scissors open the blinds to confirm that, yes, he's still in Vienna, The Reichbrücke lit up looking like a delicate string of fairy lights from his window. The reflection off the water causes the dull, persistent ache in his head to intensify, the sharp pulse descending into his left eye socket making him feel slightly nauseous.

His mobile pings its text alert from somewhere, and blearily Sherlock realises it fell to the floor. He picks it up.

_[number blocked] – 4:__08 AM_  
You're not well, little brother. Please come back to London where at least you can be afforded some comfort if you will not accept treatment.  
M

Sherlock's eyes blur with the sudden sting of tears. There was a time where he would be angry with himself for letting his weakness and emotion get the better of him. But now, there is no one to act for, and the pounding in his head it at its crescendo, crashing over him in waves, and he casts about aimlessly for his bottle of pain medicine.

He finds it in the small sink in his room, and with shaking, uncooperative fingers he finally manages to pry off the cap. He swallows three of them dry, and curls into a miserable ball in the middle of the thin mattress fully clothed, and under sheets that reek of too much starch.

He falls into a restless sleep where he dreams of being trapped in his own body, John and Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson looking down at him as they slowly lower him into the cold ground, unaware that he is still alive but unable to call out to them…

In the morning, his resolve is completely shattered, and through the haze of pain and fear he fumbles with his phone, numb fingers dialing automatically.

_"Sherlock?"_ Mycroft says after picking up on the first ring.

"My," he says through gritted teeth as another hot spike shoots through his skull.

_"Where are you?"_ he says, voice strained with horribly veiled calm.

"Please," he says licking his dry, chapped lips. Distantly he's aware he might be on the verge of sobbing. "It _hurts."_

_"Where_ are _you?"_ Mycroft says again, and Sherlock can hear the flurry of motion on the other end, and for once he feels relief loosen his chest a bit.

"Vienna," he says.

_"Don't move. I have your location. I will be there in a few hours,"_ he says, and Sherlock rings off, the phone dropping to the floor like a mantle.

He doesn't want to do this anymore, and for the first time he wishes it was over.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: This second chapter went up faster than I thought. Feedback is much appreciated, and thank you to those who have read.**

* * *

Mycroft lets himself into the small room with the key he garnered from the receptionist. The first thing that hits him is the musty smell of Sherlock's self-imposed exile, the windows closed tight and the heavy drapes drawn against the glare of the early morning sun making the space feel close and oppressive. He casts his eyes about the tableau in front of him: suitcase still unpacked, the faint smell of dirty laundry and cigarette smoke, no signs of food among the forest of empty coffee cups. A heavy sigh drags itself out of his lungs.

He makes his way over to the figure on the bed.

It spoke volumes that Sherlock didn't hear him come in, and was still curled on his side asleep. Mycroft sets his umbrella against the bedside table and picks up the half-full bottle of paracetamol for a moment and shakes his head. He takes the paper bag out from under his arm and reads the instructions for the medication inside and dumps two capsules out into his hand. He refills the glass of stale water sitting on the writing desk and sets it on the bedside table next to a small handgun. He sits gingerly on the side of the bed and takes a moment to let the overwhelming concern for his brother wash over him, and he brushes the lank curls back from his brow.

Sherlock frowns before surfacing from what was clearly a restless doze more than a truly restorative sleep. "John?" he murmurs eyes still closed.

"No," Mycroft says softly, carding his fingers through his hair one last time before lowering his hand.

Sherlock's eyes open, and he hisses in pain almost immediately, the dim light still too bright for him. He regards his brother, trying to summon his usual disdain, but it falls rather flat. Mycroft's gut twists unpleasantly when he recognises the look for what it really is: exhausted, resigned, relief.

The admission, when it comes, is likely just as painful as the ache in his head.

"It hurts, Mycroft," he whispers, ashamed of himself.

"I know. I've brought something for that; something stronger than paracetamol," he says unable to keep the admonishment out of his tone. He presses the pills into Sherlock's hand, and slides an arm under his shoulders when it becomes apparent that the vertigo is too much for him to sit up by himself. He tries to grip the water glass in his right hand, but the weakness in his fingers has increased in these past nine months that it almost slips from his grasp. Mycroft catches it before it falls, and helps him bring it up to his lips. Sherlock doesn't complain.

He grimaces after swallowing. "What are those?"

"Corticosteroids," Mycroft says. Sherlock grunts, and pushes himself further up the bed so he could lean against the headboard.

"You know I hate those," he says. "They make me nauseous."

"Only if you don't give them time to do their job," Mycroft says sitting back on the edge of the bed. Sherlock glares at him, but Mycroft isn't fazed. "So are you ready to end this ridiculous monastic existence of yours and come home where I can take care of you?"

Sherlock's sharp grey eyes flash to him. "I won't get the surgery, Mycroft. I've told you before."

"The choice, however asinine, is yours to make," he says stiffly. "But is this self-flagellation really necessary? There are steps we can take to…ease your discomfort."

His brother's gaze slides away from his, and he draws his knees up to his chest in a move that never fails to transport Mycroft back in time. He looks so young and vulnerable like this, and a flash of anger spikes through him at his abject powerlessness. Sherlock was sitting right there in pain, being hurt by something that he couldn't will off the face of the planet no matter how hard he tried, couldn't make a phone call and set everything right like he had done so many times in the past. But like always, Sherlock was the one standing in his way, only this time there was absolutely nothing he could do to save him. He swallows down the anger, busying himself with the cuffs of his sleeves.

"I assume I would be living with you?" Sherlock says guardedly.

"Yes. At my London location. You would receive the best palliative care," he says, willing the words to sound casual even though they cling unpleasantly to the roof of his mouth.

"John can't know," he says an edge of panic in his voice that he fails to cover.

"Of course not," Mycroft says. "Now come home, Sherlock."

Sherlock exhales deeply through his nose, dropping his knees back down on the bed. He puts a hand over his face, unable to look at him as he nods his assent.

A knot of tension loosens in Mycroft's chest, and he sets about gathering Sherlock's meager belongings to which he hands to Anthea standing just outside to take down to the car. He makes a quick phone call to book a private jet to take them back within the hour. Honestly he thought it would take longer to convince his brother, and he's not sure if he's glad for the efficiency, or disconcerted at Sherlock's unnatural pliant behaviour.

When he comes back in from his phone conversation out in the hall, Sherlock has hardly moved. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, legs dangling over the side, staring at his lap and trying to take steadying breaths through his mouth. He sways lightly where he sits, and squeezes his eyes shut. Mycroft doesn't say anything. He grabs Sherlock's shoes from the floor, and kneels down in front of him. He takes one of his feet, and slips it on and does up the laces.

"I want to be cremated," Sherlock says suddenly, breaking the silence. Mycroft pauses minutely as he slips on the other shoe.

"We'll talk about it later," he says.

"No, now," he says earnestly. He startles Mycroft by gripping his arms. "Don't – don't put me in a box. Please."

Mycroft looks into his face, the formidable walls that he had grown accustomed to seeing from Sherlock, forged from bitterness and resentment, were all but worn away and something in his chest disconnects. Before him was his little brother, clinging to him as he faced his own chasm of sucking fear.

He closes his eyes against the raw feeling in his bones, and holds onto Sherlock's elbows. He doesn't know if he's trying to comfort Sherlock or himself at this point.

"I wish you wouldn't do this," Mycroft says. "I can get you the best help. It's not too late for you."

"You know why, Mycroft. What's the point in living if I'm not…if I'm not myself?"

"You don't know that's what will happen," he says, aware he is as close to pleading as he's ever come in his entire life. "There is no guarantee the surgery would leave you less than fully intact."

Sherlock shakes his head, paling further. He closes his eyes, and it's clear he's utterly shattered. "I've made my decision. Please just promise me you'll respect my wishes."

Mycroft sighs heavily. "All right. We'll discuss it at length back in London." He rises stiffly to his feet, aware of all forty two years of his life bearing down on him in that instant. He wants to reach a hand out to Sherlock, but figures his pride has been compromised enough, and gathers his umbrella instead. Sherlock gets to his feet almost delicately, testing his footing and straightening his rumpled shirt collar. Mycroft hands him his coat, and gestures to the door with a small tilt of his head. Sherlock pulls his shoulders back in determination, and makes his way out into the hall.

His hands are shaking. His steps are careful. So, so careful.

Mycroft attempts to unstick the walls of his throat from one another. He feels as if he's drowning, and when Sherlock stumbles on his way to the lift, he can't take this dismal feeling of helplessness any longer.

Something had to be done. He couldn't just sit back and watch Sherlock die.

He wouldn't.

* * *

_*There has been an edit in chapter one that I figured needed clarifying. In this slight AU, it's been nine months since Reichenbach, and six months since Sherlock tracked down Moran in Moscow like Mycroft refers to. It only took him three months to accomplish, and the remainder has been in exile._


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Sorry this is a slow one. Like I said, this is some heavy stuff and I need to be in a certain headspace to write like this. But I shall see it to the end, I promise. Your feedback is amazing, and I love hearing your thoughts. Thanks for reading.**

**Oh yes, and John swears a lot in this chapter. So sorry in advance. Like a lot. F-bombs all over the place. It's like the London Blitz alloveragain.**

* * *

John saw it on the telly.

It was a brief image they had on a loop of Sherlock being escorted from the steps of a private plane to a black car. He was in a wheelchair, a hand shielding his face as if in pain, and John's heart clenched painfully in his chest at the sight.

The caption at the bottom reads _FAMOUS CONSULTING DETECTIVE BACK FROM THE DEAD!_ in scrolling white letters.

John stares, his jaw clenched tight as Sherlock rises from the chair with the help of Mycroft who glares angrily into the camera. Sherlock briefly glances up with hollow eyes looking exhausted and worn down to almost nothing, before his slips into the sedan. John thought he looked like the very image of a ghost, and for a moment convinces himself he made the whole thing up, his imagination just that desperate and perverted to torture him further.

And then the footage replays itself and it finally sinks in that the images on the screen are _real._

John drops his coffee mug right there in the lobby.

The next thing he is aware of is Sarah leading him back to his office by the wrist and pushing him down on the small sofa against the wall.

_"Fuck,"_ he says, a hysterical sob threatening to burst through his chest. He buries his face into his hands, and the tension in his shoulders makes his whole upper body shake.

"Take a breath, John," Sarah says from next to him.

"Take a — take a _goddam_ breath?" John says, head snapping up to her, suddenly furious. He jumps to his feet, needing some form of action to busy himself with. "How can I ever be expected to _fucking breathe again?_ Christ. Are you kidding me?" The pacing isn't working, and the second John catches sight of Sarah's pitying look he loses it, and grabs the first thing he comes in contact with — in this case a pencil holder — and lobs it across the room with a wordless roar.

The ceramic jar, a present from his niece, shatters against the wall sending pencils and pens flying in all directions. John finds a moment of violent glee at making Sarah flinch, but it is short lived under the crushing reality, and he slumps back against his desk with a hand over his eyes.

"Shit. Sarah, I'm — I'm sorry," he says taking a heaving breath like he should have done in the first place. When he looks up again he is met with her watery eyes and ashen face, and guilt lodges itself somewhere firmly in his solar plexus. She adjusts the hem of her skirt, taking a moment to compose herself before she stands and takes a few steps towards him. She doesn't try to touch him, however.

"I think you should take some time off, John," she says. He immediately goes to protest, but she holds up a hand, cutting him off. "In fact I'm requiring it of you. You've hardly used any vacation as it is, and there are other locum doctors that could always use more hours."

He fights the fear trying to claw its way up his throat. "Sarah — I can't — what am I supposed to do?" If he didn't have his job to keep him busy he would start to think, and thinking was never good.

Sarah bridges the gap finally, and takes his face between her palms. "You're running yourself thin, John. You barely took any time off for bereavement after Sherlock…" He pulls sharply away from her, and she sighs in defeat. He straightens up, and cuffs a hand through his hair, avoiding her eyes. He knows if he looks at her all he'll find is more pity, and that will only cause him to lose his temper again. He nods and turns away from her to gather his jacket, he feels exhausted suddenly, as if he hadn't slept in ages.

"You're right," he says flatly, shoving an arm through a sleeve. His Adam's apple bobs against the searing tightness gathered in his throat, and he struggles to swallow despite his dry mouth. "I'll be in touch."

When John gets outside he dithers on the pavement for a moment. For the first time in nine months he has the desire to return to Baker Street, and in the end decides to hail a cab instead of taking the Tube back to his own flat. He tips the cabbie before hand, asking him not to stop until they get there in case he changes his mind. The man gives him a dubious look, but takes the fifty anyway, and John spends the entire ride trying not to think.

He figures this method seems to be working when the familiar black door comes into view and he has yet to actually lose it. He steps out of the cab, his old key already out of his pocket and hand surprisingly steady as he slides it into the lock. Maybe it was the electricity in the air, but for some reason, he is completely nonplussed when he walks into the flat and finds Mycroft Holmes standing near the bare writing desk holding an old news paper.

The headline reads _MORIARTY'S ULTIMATUM_ on the front, dated back nine months ago, and it is an article John has spent hours pouring over, endless nights and hateful days until his fingers smelt of newsprint and his eyes ached from the strain, trying to understand why the best man he had ever known threw himself off a building. Only to discover later that it was all for naught.

To see it in Mycroft's hands is like a sacrilege.

"Hello, John," Mycroft says, and tips his head in acknowledgement, not taking his eyes off the paper.

"Get out," John says, blood pounding hot in his veins. He stares at the article, wanting nothing more than to tear it out of his hands and put it back where it belongs on the desk behind him.

"Ah. I see you've seen the news, then?"

"Get the _fuck_ out, Mycroft," John says, positively shaking with rage. He doesn't dare move, because if he does he's sure he won't be able to stop himself from hurting the man.

"John," Mycroft says in a patronising tone that harkens back to the first time he met the bastard. "I am sorry for the upset this may have caused you, but I had hoped we could converse like civilised people in light of the circumstances."

_"Upset?"_ John says incredulously, his vision actually going red for a moment. "No, Mycroft. Indigestion is an 'upset'. I fucking watched as my best friend _killed himself in front of me_. And then today, I found out that, oh no, apparently he didn't! Through the goddam telly, no less! So you can fuck right off, I should think, because my name is still on the lease for another month and this is still my flat."

Mycroft's eyes darken, and he places the news article down on the desk very carefully, his finger tips splayed over the image of Sherlock's face.

"I understand you are angry —"

"Bullshit."

"— but you have to realise he only thought he was doing what was best for you."

John finally snaps, the fury taking hold of him by force, and he spins around and punches his fist into the wall by the door just to keep himself from committing murder right then and there. The pain in his hand clears his head a little and he whirls back around, marching right up to Mycroft.

"Jumping off a roof was what was best for me?! Are you out of your bloody mind?" John roars, and Mycroft takes a step back. John finds it as a triumph.

"They were going to kill you, John. A sniper was poised to shoot unless Sherlock complied with Moriarty's demands."

John deflates a little, eyes flicking to the folded paper. "I know. It's all in there. After Moriarty killed himself that bloody directive of his was sent out to run the truth of his sick game and retract his 'Richard Brook' persona." John doesn't know why he's telling him this; he's no doubt read it just like the rest of the world.

"Why do you think he would do such a thing?" Mycroft suddenly asks, eyes sharp.

"Because it was all a game to him. It was a game of chess, and Sherlock figured out how to beat him. Moriarty didn't think he would lose, but genius warrants an audience, so he let his arrogance dictate the rules. It was all just the imaginings of a twisted psychopath, and Sherlock played right into his hands," he says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his words. They feel corrosive in his mouth like old iron; ferrous and sharp.

"Sherlock stopped playing the moment it became about you, John," Mycroft says sagely. "In his defence, Sherlock doesn't know about Moriarty's prerogative."

John bows his head, an invisible vice of pressure constricting his chest. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why are you telling me this?" he says, voice cracking with distress and a sudden weariness that makes his marrow ache. "Why are you here?"

Mycroft hesitates at this, and John's head shoots up instantly aware of the tension crackling between them, greater than usual. Mycroft is never uncertain about anything, and John waits for him to speak, an uneasy feeling clawing at the base of his spine.

Finally, Mycroft stands a little straighter and looks him in the eye.

"I'm here because Sherlock saved you, and even though your grace above any other's is the most unprecedented by far, I had hoped you would bestow it one more time when it comes to the matter of my brother."

"Mycroft…?" John says warily, the feeling blooming into a dark, unmistakable fear.

"Sherlock…is dying, John. And I believe you are the only one who can save him."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Hey guys! Hopefully this chapter is worth it especially since I've kept you guys waiting. This piece is shaping up to be a very emotional one, and I want to do it as much justice as I can by eliminating cliched elements and cleaning up the phrasing. I'm really trying to push myself with this one, and I appreciate you guys' patience! Feedback is marvellous, and I look forward to your thoughts as always. Thanks again,**  
**xxHoney**

* * *

"_Fuck_ you," Sherlock spits. He slams his fists on the mantle in Mycroft's study, his limbs shaking with rage as well as that bone-deep fatigue he was never able to fully dispel these days.

Mycroft clears his throat behind him. "It was on television, Sherlock. By the time I got to him he'd already learnt of your return. If anything, my intention was to attempt to soften the blow."

Sherlock scoffs bitterly, and clutches the polished wood in front of him. "And who's fault is that?"

"I told you, I don't know who leaked our arrival to the press. I am looking into it, and you can be assured that once I find who is responsible they will be dealt with accordingly. But I cannot change the fact that it happened," he says tersely, and Sherlock's temper explodes over the threshold of his control, and he backhands the stately carriage clock off the mantle to where it crashes to the floor. It does little to assuage his fury.

"Did you tell him?" he snarls turning his fever-bright gaze onto his brother. Mycroft arches a manicured eyebrow before uncrossing his legs and rising from his armchair.

"I told him only what he needed to know," Mycroft says, and for a moment the brothers stare at each other, the silence oppressive with the sudden absence of the ticking clock lying on the hardwood.

All at once, Sherlock doesn't have the energy to parse through this statement and find out what it really means, and he pinches the bridge of his nose in attempt to keep the exhaustion at bay. Mycroft sighs and makes his way over to the double doors just as the sound of footsteps travel up the corridor beyond.

"One of these days you are going to learn to stop underestimating your Doctor Watson," he says, and with one last glance at Sherlock, he turns the handle and swings it open wide.

There, standing in the doorway is John, hand poised as if just about to knock and for a moment Sherlock's vision tunnels and bleeds white before honing in on that impossible man in front of him. The man he threw himself off a building for; the man he fully prepared himself to never see again. He lets out a shuddering gasp that rakes up his trachea on the way out.

"John," Mycroft says. "You came."

John's eyes fasten onto Sherlock his brows coming together, mouth turning down. His expression is devastated and determined, angry and overwhelmed and broken all at once, and it's physically painful to see. But for the life of him, Sherlock can't tear himself away from the sight.

"Of course I did," he says hoarsely.

Sherlock drinks him in, cataloguing everything about him — _hair: unkempt and ragged from pulling his fingers repeated through it; shoulders: tense, old wound giving him trouble most likely because he walked here, turned around at least twice before changing his mind; shoes: more wear on the outer edge of the right heel, limp acting up; old jumper, obviously economic, still working at the clinic; cut through the park as evidenced by — stop, stop, STOP._ He nearly cries out loud against the onslaught of information as the pain in his head causes the ringing in his ears to soar to a siren-like intensity.

Sherlock slams his eyes shut and turns away, gripping the mantle again this time for an entirely different reason.

"I'll leave you," Mycroft says and Sherlock hears the door click shut behind him.

For a minute the only sound in the room is their breathing until John takes a few steps towards him and stops.

"Sherlock," his voice is close and quiet. "Look at me. Please."

"I'm not — you aren't supposed to be here," Sherlock says, head bowed.

"Well I am," John says, coming closer. "and unless you can look me in the eye tell me you don't want me here, I'm not leaving."

Sherlock faces him then. John was a man that seldom didn't do what he said, and if Sherlock could do this one thing, then maybe he could salvage the damage that had been done. He drags his eyes upwards, the vitriolic words on his tongue meant to strike and push away, but when he meets John's gaze they die in his throat.

Those blue eyes penetrate him, pierce him through and through like a clap of thunder resonating within the hollow of his bones. In their depths, Sherlock can see the fire and pain, and overwhelming tenderness smouldering like coal, and he knows that John knows and instead of pity like he was fearing, there is only aching grief and hardened resolve.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out at last, the words shattering apart in his mouth like porcelain. He knows they are inadequate, but maybe, just maybe John will gather them up off the ground and put them back together. It has to be enough, because he has nothing left to give.

The last remaining strength drains from him in that moment, and his knees turn to water. The room is spinning, and he registers strong arms around him, holding him tight before the world tilts, and he is being gently guided to the floor where he slumps, legs collapsing underneath him, his head buried in John's shoulder. He breathes in deep through his nose, the scent of talcum powder, and cheap aftershave, and wool, and tea — _oh! Tea and honey and lemon and John, John, John_ — fills his lungs, and suddenly he can't stop the litany of _Oh God, John I'm sorry, so sorry_ from pouring out of his mouth as he shakes apart, his hands fisting into the back of John's jumper as if he were drowning.

"Shh, shh," John says rocking them gently as they sit in the middle of the floor. "Sherlock, calm down love, it's all right."

"It's not, John. It's not all right," Sherlock croaks, pressing his face even harder into the juncture of John's collarbone. "I can't — I'm not — I'm_not_ —" he grits, unable to draw a full breath.

John leans back slightly so he can look into Sherlock's face. He holds Sherlock's head in between his hands, fingers twining into his hair and gripping with just enough fortitude to pin him to the spinning earth.

"You need to breathe, Sherlock. You're hyperventilating," John says, and Sherlock attempts to slow his ragged gasps for air.

"You — you should leave," he says even though his own hold tightens around him.

"Yeah? How do you figure?" John says softly, the ghost of an ironic smile on his lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. His thumb caresses Sherlock's left temple, and his eyes flicker to it as if they were trying to see beyond flesh and skull to the black insidious mass lurking within.

"I will…_destroy_ you all over again," Sherlock says, breath hitching.

"Well then. I will merrily let you tear me apart if it means you'll let me stay," John says.

Sherlock clenches his jaw. He didn't see how — he wasn't —

"I _can't_…" Sherlock says again, voice dissolving due to despair, and he presses his forehead against John's.

"You can't what, love?" John whispers.

"I can't do what I know is right. I can't ask you to leave; you have to do that by yourself," he admits. "I've already given you up once, and I don't have it in me to do it again."

John closes his eyes, the hand at his temple traveling to the back of Sherlock's neck and gripping hard. He swallows, jaw working against a sea of unsaid words. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and Sherlock shivers as it ghosts over his cheek.

"Do you honestly think I could go even if I wanted to? Do you think after everything I will let you —" he cuts himself off, inhaling sharply. "Why didn't you come back to me sooner?" The grief in his voice feels like a razor to his flesh, and Sherlock's eyes burn hot with sudden moisture.

"You know why," Sherlock says in a broken voice pulling back a little.

"I need to hear you say it, Sherlock. I need for you to tell me why."

Sherlock exhales, his lungs suddenly aching, and his hands make their way up over John's arms and shoulders to rest on either side of his jaw as they continue to sit there in each other's embrace.

"It is cruel…to make you watch me die twice. I stayed away because — because it's what you deserve. You deserve to have a life, not some broken irreparable thing I've caused two-fold. Don't you see?"

John looks abashed for a moment before letting out a rueful chuckle that unravels into sob at the end.

"You _fuck_ing idiot," he grinds out, voice taut.

Before Sherlock has a chance to wonder at this, John pulls him in and presses a bruising kiss to his chapped lips. Sherlock gasps, mouth parting slightly, before his eyes flutter shut. He reciprocates somewhat awkwardly at first, then relaxes into the sensation and yields to the rhythm of John's mouth on his.

John's lips are dry and taste faintly of cinnamon, and Sherlock wonders when he started taking it in his tea. The feeling of drowning crashes over him again, but this time it's welcome, and the ache in Sherlock's chest melts bit by bit.

It ends all too soon, however, when John suddenly tears himself away as if burned. His hand tightens on Sherlock's nape as he fixes him with an earnest look.

"I can forgive you for what you did. I can forgive you for not telling me. But I _will not_ forgive you for giving up. Because this, right here? This is what I want for my life: danger and chases and crap telly and left over Chinese and _you,_ you bloody sod. So don't you fucking tell me what I deserve, and don't you dare tell me that you're dying now that I've finally got a chance to have all of that back." His voice gives out at the end, and his eyes glisten with unshed tears as he searches Sherlock's face.

"John…" he falters, gasping as if struck by a blow. He feels absolutely shattered by the weight of promises he knows John wants him to make even though he cannot possibly keep them in the end. The pounding in his head screams at him to _end it, end it now!_ but he can't bring himself to obey. He opens his mouth.

"No," John says cutting him off. "We're not going to do this here." He releases Sherlock, and helps him up to his feet, albeit shakily. Just as he regains his balance, John immediately pulls him into a proper embrace and holds Sherlock tight against him. "Please. Let's go home."


End file.
